


IT REACHES OUT FROM THE DARKNESS

by AgnesClementine



Series: FIGHTERS OF THE GOOD FIGHT [10]
Category: Supernatural, The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine
Summary: The boys decide to tackle a case that hits close to home for Diego.
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves/Dean Winchester
Series: FIGHTERS OF THE GOOD FIGHT [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1301294
Comments: 311
Kudos: 331





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I think it's time for more flashbacks and for Diego to start balancing that cliche "hiding-the-truth-from-the-lover" trope, right?
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Three weeks after their harsh encounter with a different type of a monster, John and Bobby have a falling out. Diego doesn’t know what it was about, Dean doesn’t know either, and John is not offering any explanations. But at one moment, Diego and Dean are rushing down the stairs at the sound of shouting and swearing, then Bobby’s got a shotgun trained at John’s chest, and they are all packing their stuff and hitting the road before the bloodshed occurs.

Until they’ve stopped for the night, nobody said a word. Silence is something Diego has a love-hate relationship with; his childhood was a bunch of documentary podcasts and quiet mealtimes. But there _were seven of them_ , and a minute of peace and quiet was always a gift from damn heavens. And silence is not something he usually associates with Dean Winchester, but this time, there’s no music playing in the car, and Dean doesn’t say a word before the lights are out and they’re lying side by side on a queen bed whose mattress spring is digging into his back.

“I don’t think we’ll see Bobby again,” Dean confesses into the darkness.

Diego is not surprised, but he knows that if Dean could see his face, he’d see how disappointed he is. He likes Bobby. In a lot of things, and when he’s feeling particularly angry at the world and his fate, he can see Bobby as a father figure. Gruff and not overly affectionate, but still a far cry from the excuse that is Reginald Hargreeves. And anyway, he’s got Mom to show him affection and warmth.

“Ever?” He asks.

He feels Dean shrug, their shoulders brushing together.

“I don’t know.”

For a moment, he wants to find Dean’s hand, set somewhere between their bodies, and take it in his. But it’s too quiet, and there’s too much space to think, so he doesn’t. Diego doesn’t know what’s their label, or if they have one. They hunt monsters and drive around and kiss each other silly when no one’s watching and they are not shy underneath the sheets, but they don’t talk about it. Which is fine, Diego tells himself and it doesn’t even sound or feel like a lie, because in a few minutes, he’ll slow down his breathing and relax into a lumpy mattress, and he’ll feel Dean lean into him before he drifts off into sleep for real.

  * ●●●●



John high-tails it towards Montana the very next morning, and he and Dean spend a few days just driving and lounging around in crappy motel rooms until something catches their eyes.

Diego is tearing into his blueberry pancakes when Dean whistles, newspaper sheets obscuring his face.

“Dude,” he says, shoving a page in his face, “look at this.”

The first thing Diego notices is the picture. Police tape and a body bag being wheeled out of a derelict church in the background. Then, the title in bold letters saying “A MANGLED CORPSE OF A TEEN SHOOK THE LOCALS”.

He looks up at Dean with quirked eyebrows.

“Read the article, man,” Dean tells him.

He skims over the chunk of text beneath the picture, his face contorting into a frown and an uneasy, stifling feeling nagging the back of his mind at the mention of a stomach wound and missing intestines. How the crime scene looked like a horror movie set.

“What do you think it is?” He asks Dean carefully.

Dean shrugs. “No idea but it’s worth checking out,” he says, taking a bite out of his breakfast burger.

“So you wanna go to New Mexico? Right now?”

“It’s not like we have anything going on at the moment. And I’ve been itching for a hunt.”

There’s nothing he can say to that because he agrees; there are welcome breaks between cases, and then there are mind-numbing vacations that drive you up the wall. They could use a little pick-me-up. Even though the case isn’t sitting quite right with him.

  * ●●●●



The crime scene fucking reeks when they arrive. He hears Dean gag next to him, just as he himself stops his breathing almost instinctively at the first gust of smell that has his stomach turning. The blood spraying the walls has turned rusty brown, and the bits of meat and skin that the police haven’t managed to scrape off have started to decay.

There is a makeshift altar set underneath the actual altar and spray-painted circle in front of it on the floor. In the middle of it, a white outline of a body. The rest of the church- pews, the windows- is destroyed, just a mess of glass and wood on the floor.

“Definitely our thing,” Dean says, looking at the symbols on the walls around them, “ugh, let’s get the fuck out of here before I puke.”

Diego only nods, turning on his heels to take a lead as alarm bells start ringing in his head. This scene is familiar, and he wouldn’t doubt himself if it weren’t for the fact that Ben has been dead for years, so there was no way his monster could do this. At least he hopes so.

  * ●●●●



The dead teen girl had a lot of friends. Acquaintances. Whatever. The point is, Diego and Dean found themselves with a mighty long list of suspects and Diego doesn’t know about Dean, but he sure as hell isn’t looking forward to combing through it. What is it with teenagers that drives them to pick fights and create drama with everyone?

Upon realizing how old that makes him sound, Diego shakes his head and enters the small shop that a few kids from their list are frequenting. He already checked out the park, and the diner, and did a few house visits, but so far, nothing weird struck out to him.

Now, though, weird gets him like a gut punch. Or, maybe, the better term would be- _familiar_ gets him like a gut punch.

The shop is full of books and trinkets that at the sight scream obscure and occult, but the thing that catches Diego’s eyes is the corner completely dedicated to the Academy merchandise.

Not merchandise, exactly, because the word never quite got out of the city enough to give them “right” popularity, but there were cut out newspaper articles, and photos, and fucking figurines- _what the fuck?_ \- and there were books.

Diego paws at the few, fan-written theories about their identities, how they got their powers, what they are. Those are laughable because Diego knows answers to most of their questions, but then he grabs the one with bright “EXCLUSIVE” smacked onto it, and, honestly, he feels a bit sick.

_“EXTRA ORDINARY: My Life as Number Seven by Number Seven”_ hits him like a semi at full speed, and his vision dims for a second before he’s frantically flipping through the pages.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to himself, reading the chapters.

_Chapter 2: The Powers_

_Chapter 6: The mystery of Number Five_

_Chapter 9: The death of Number Six_

_Chapter 12: Living with strangers_

_Chapter 13: Freedom_

He doesn’t hear the paper creaking under his fingers, but he sees his knuckles turning white. He feels his pulse hammering in his fingertips. It feels like the book is on fire, but he still starts reading random passages.

_“…always excluded from activities…living under a strict regime…motherless…”_

_“…never a real family…strangers…alone…”_

_“The best always leave us first…tragedy…a great loss…”_

The letters blur and he slams the book back on its shelf, racing out of the stale, dark shop, bile reaching up to his throat.

He doesn’t throw up, but it’s a near thing and he slumps against the brick wall in an alley next to the shop, heaving and shaking. Vanya wrote how they all grew up estranged and cut the contact with her- _she thinks they all still talk to each other?_ \- but Diego bets she’d be really glad that he doesn’t know where she is and that she’s not here right now because he’d most definitely fucking deck her.


	2. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hi. I'm still alive. And this series is still very much alive. My brain just needs a kick, it seems.
> 
> But anyway, yeah, for all those who stuck around, thank you for waiting so patiently and I hope I'll get back on track now. At least somewhat lol XD
> 
> Welp, let me know what you think and enjoy! :)

Dean comes to pick him up twenty minutes later. By that time, Diego’s brain stopped feeling like it’s going to split in half, but he gets into the car like his body is something foreign, some heavy weight pulling him down. His lungs feel tight as if someone stuffed lumps of sticky mud in his chest cavity.

“Found anything?” Dean asks, glancing at him curiously. Diego wonders if he can see how wrecked he is- because he can feel it brimming just under the surface of his skin.

_Yes._

He shakes his head, says, “Nothing important.”

He’s not sure that Dean believes him.

  * ●●●●



_Diego doesn’t know what went wrong. But the smoke is stinging his eyes and the ashes and dust still haven’t settled and Ben is not answering their calls._

_“Ben!” Allison screeches, voice scraping and cracking with dust clogging up her throat._

_Diego feels his chest lock down almost on its own accord, heart beating madly against his breast bone and ribs, pulse drumming harshly in his temples._

_The building in front of them is a skeleton of broken windows and fire. The air smells like copper and coals. Ben is still not joining them._

_They run. He thinks ‘suicide runs’, he thinks ‘drills’, he thinks ‘running through rain and mud, muscles burning, while Dad yells at them to pick up their pace’. He thinks ‘Ben’._

_They keep screaming and someone is asking what the hell happened, what the fuck went wrong, and Diego can’t tell if it’s him or Klaus or Allison or Luther._

_In the epicenter of debris but away from the fire eating away at wooden crates and disused plastic pipes, long tentacles are frantically swiping around, trashing without purpose and touching Ben’s limp form with contrasting gentleness._

_Luther forges forth, ducking and avoiding uncoordinated tendrils dashing about, and Diego follows. They skid down on their knees next to Ben’s body and there is blood pooling down on the concrete and Diego can’t see where it’s coming from, he can’t-_

_“Fuck, we gotta- we gotta- Allison! Klaus! Call Mom!” Luther hollers next to him as their hands roam over uniform that’s slowly getting drenched in blood, searching or the wound that’s bleeding this much._

_Their movements- or the touch- alert the Horror and just as Diego’s hand clamps over a gunshot graze low on the side of Ben’s neck almost hidden by the collar, a tentacle wraps around his wrist and squeezes._

_He lets out a short yelp of panic and pain as the pressure suddenly increases and his eyes start watering. It’s- fuck, he’s gonna lose a hand._

_“Shit!” Luther swears and digs his fingers between Diego’s skin and the tentacle. He’s trying to dislodge it, but a whiny, thundering noise rattles out of the ever-changing vortex on Ben’s stomach, and Luther’s fingers keep slipping over the slimy surface._

_Diego bites down on the inside of his cheek because he’s not gonna cry. Ben is not gonna die today and he can’t let go, he has to- he has to keep the pressure on and he’s not gonna cry._

  * ●●●●



The first time, he wakes up to complete darkness of the room and a faint throb of his ribs and asks into the night, “Did you just elbow me?”

Next to him, Dean shuffles on the mattress, twisting to presumably face him. “You kicked me first,” he tells Diego.

Diego squints even though he knows that Dean can’t actually see him.

“Jackass,” he says, grabs a handful of the covers and turns on his side, away from Dean in a petty attempt to wrap the covers around himself and steal them away from Dean.

“Hey!” Naturally, Dean protests and tugs them back with a huff.

Diego rolls with the movement, turning onto his back again. He doesn’t have energy or desire for a scuffle right now, so he just waits for Dean to settle back down and for sleep to pull him back under. It doesn’t happen and he spends a while just listening to Dean’s breathing. It is strangely comforting in a way a few things are; the fabric softener Mom uses, his knives, Dean’s car, and his damn cassette tapes.

If Diego dared to think about it, it would scare him how dependent he is on Dean. How much of himself he allowed Dean to touch and hold.

He sighs and it almost echoes in the quiet.

  * ●●●●



The second time, he wakes up to a faint brush of fingers over the nape of his neck and the mattress shifting as Dean gets up. He breathes into the pillow, listens to Dean getting dressed as his thoughts wander.

He knows this case- and at the same time, he doesn’t. And he can’t tell Dean. It’s not an option.

It guts him and twists his insides with cruel fingers, but he can’t tell Dean. Not like this. Not yet.

“You plan on being in the bed the whole day or?” Dean asks him jokingly, jostling him lightly with his knee until Diego bats him away with a grumble.

He wants to stay in the bed; he wants to sink into the mattress and disappear and not think about the book or the case or anything. He wants this to last.

He never gets what he wants.

  * ●●●●



“Okay, so. This far, we have…pretty much zilch,” Dean says matter-of-factly and a little bit bitterly, chomping down on his fries with a scowl.

Diego swirls his own in a strawberry milkshake listlessly, stomach cramping at the thought of food. He hums in agreement.

Dean grumbles.

It doesn’t make much sense- the case. If it is the Horror- and it can’t be, can it? This is not how it works? At least Diego thinks it shouldn’t- then they are doomed.

Or maybe not doomed but still, the win in this one is far-fetched. _Ben_ didn’t know how to control it- how the hell was Diego supposed to?

And Dean, God. Dean has no idea what he’s getting into. This is not something he can shoot or set on fire or banish. This is not something that works like the rest of their world works. Not by a long shot.

Dean sighs heavily and throws a fry back on his plate. He looks at Diego like they’re sitting at opposing sides of an interrogation table.

“Okay, dude, what the hell is up with you?” He asks sharply.

Diego startles. “What?”

Dean waves a hand at him, says, “You look like someone took a piss in your cereal _and_ ran over your puppy. And you’ve been like this since yesterday. So what gives?”

“It’s-“

“If you say ‘nothing’, I’m gonna throw a fry at you,” Dean threatens.

Diego clamps his mouth shut. Breathes out through his nose petulantly. He doesn’t want to talk about this.

They stare at each other for a long moment, sounds and people drifting around them, and then Diego says, “We should look into more detail about the victim. She was killed in a church so maybe there’s something we’re missing.”

He holds his breath as Dean’s teeth grind together, jaw twitching. In the end, he acknowledges Diego’s suggestion with a contemplative hum.

But this is not over. By now, Diego knows Dean is just waiting for his moment to ambush him, poke and prod until Diego folds like a house of cards and spills everything.

  * ●●●●



Diego watches as Dean swaggers up to a group of girls in the mall’s parking lot, all charm and confidence, and sets to work.

They giggle and fawn over him- which, well, Diego can totally understand- as he chats, nodding, frowning and smiling indulgently at whatever they’re saying. Diego watches, taking in little details in the scene; the flashy beads on one girl’s bag, the other’s mismatched earrings, the way Sun catches one side of Dean’s head, turns his hair golden. It’s a bit like artwork, Diego thinks, this play-pretend. Different song, the same dance; they are both liars, except Dean knows how to build up a whole new reality with only his words and expressions. Kind of like Allison. Diego can hide things but he’s not a storyteller, he can’t fabricate a story to appease the crowd while holding the door to his emotions firmly shut at the same time. It takes too much energy from him. And Klaus always had a better imagination.

Soon, Dean plops back into the car, the polite smile slipping away to be exchanged for a thoughtful frown.

“Well. The word was that our victim was a virgin,” Dean informs him.

“So we’re, what- Dealing with virgin sacrifices? Are those a thing?” Diego hopes they’re not. That is just…so cliché and not something he wants to deal with now. _Or ever, thank you very much._

“Yep,” Dean says.

Diego sighs. Right. Of course. Of fucking course.

“ _Terrific._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alsoooo. I have some ideas swimming around in my head and there is a possibility of another Dean/Diego fic- separate to this series- so look out for that even tho I'll definitely let you guys know if and when I post it. :D


	3. 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you wonderful, wonderful humans <3 I'm so glad to see that so many of you are still interested in this series! It's honestly so damn flattering and heart-warming and yeah, I just love you all <3 <3 <3
> 
> The updates will *probably* be either Thursday, Friday or during the weekend :D
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think and enjoy! :D

The thing- that Diego regrets finding out so damn much- is that a lot of monsters have a taste for virgins. And Diego can’t believe that, at some point in his life, one of the decisions he made has led him to spending a whole afternoon researching virgin sacrifices in a little town library with Dean.

But. Here he is.

He flips through the pages in front of him, letters blurring, and groans miserably before closing the book. The sound of it snapping closed echoes, bouncing off the walls and in the end gets swallowed up by mind-numbing silence all around them.

“What the fuck is up with monsters and their fetishes?” He grouses.

Across the mountain of old, dusty books, Dean gives him a sympathetic look- and not so subtly glances at the secluded spot between the rows of bookshelves on his right.

Diego’s cheeks feel warm and Dean’s eyes are gleaming but neither of them moves. They can tick library sex off the list some other time. Sadly.

“Dunno, man. I guess it’s fancier than feet fetish,” Dean responds to his question with a shrug. Then he gives a small self-assured nod before saying, “Though there is this one fugly-“

And.

“Please, don’t. I really don’t want to know,” Diego tells him pleadingly, holding up a hand to stop him from continuing.

In turn, Dean lifts his arms in surrender, goes back to his own book.

Diego eyes his own with pure, sincere disdain. Then he huffs, rubs his eyes and goes back to reading.

  * ●●●●



“Okay, in theory, what do you think happened?” Dean asks him through a mouthful of burger. None of their monsters fit the case, but Dean is having fun. Dean is _fucking thriving_ , ready to tackle this with both hands and wrestle with it the dark.

Diego…is not sure about anything at the moment. Except about regretting ever finding that stupid book.

God, what if Dean found it? What if Dean was the one to walk into that shop? What if he had found the book and-

It’s not- Diego didn’t keep it a secret on purpose. At least not at first. A least not with the intention to get something from it. He just wanted some fucking peace and not to be seen as a piece of something but as a whole, multidimensional thing on his own. He and his siblings never made one collective personality; Diego was anger because it was safe and easy and freeing. Sometimes, people just need to smash an expensive vase or break some asshole’s nose to feel like they exist.

But that doesn’t mean Diego wanted Dean to see just that; his whole family already did that well on their own.

He wanted- He just wanted Dean. Maybe right from the start. He just wasn’t picky about the way in which he could have him back then.

“I don’t know. Ritual gone wrong?” He guesses half-heartedly.

Dean chews thoughtfully. “Might be. But what ritual?”

“Don’t ask me, you’re the expert,” Diego says lightly, “I’m just here for the ride.”

Dean levels him with a flat look that tells him just how much he believes that Diego doesn’t know anything about the supernatural.

Diego ignores it.

“We need to do more research,” Dean says then, voice mournful.

Diego can honestly feel a bit of his soul withering away at the announcement.

  * ●●●●



If they thought that there is a lot of monsters with virginity fetish, they were not prepared for the number of rituals requiring some piece of a virgin- at least.

Diego feels like his face will stay stuck in the grossed out frown that kept cramping his face with each page he read. Dean doesn’t seem to be doing any better.

“And I thought _monsters_ were crazy,” he tells Diego, slamming the book he was reading with a scowl.

Diego hums, digs his fingers into his eyes. He’s tired and he wants coffee but there’s no coffee machine nearby. And they had only arrived at the library an hour ago so he can’t bug Dean into leaving just for a damn cup of coffee.

His thoughts start wandering then, running on a loop that coils anxiety and anger and resignation around his chest like iron bands. Vanya had no right to publish that book, she had no right to throw their dirty laundry out for everyone to see. She had no right to cast them out of her life like that. Diego’s not- Diego never visited and he never called but, shit, who the hell would want to hear from him?

God, if someone sees it. If John or Bobby or Sam or Dean see it-

The thought- the realization, really, strikes him so suddenly it makes him dizzy. He looks at Dean over the mountain of old, smelly books, colored in shadows, and realizes he’s gonna lose it; Dean, this, everything. 

“I need a bathroom break,” he tells Dean gruffly, getting out of his seat and stalking away at Dean’s affirmative hum.

He located the bathroom easy enough but his chest starts heaving before he’s even got the door closed behind him. A noise part stifled sob, part the sound of choking on air leaves him and he cracks open the window, lets the fresh air hit him and cool him down.

He hoped it was gonna last. He hoped this was gonna be it for him. Diego’s not a monster. At least…he doesn’t think he is. He doesn’t want to be. But he never said anything and he’s not-

He has fabricated a whole new person for Dean. Dean is in love with hunter Diego who likes knives and still drinks milk on its own in the morning and doesn’t get along with his family; not with former superhero Diego who keeps fucking things up and has too much anger issues. _That_ Diego is a stranger to him. That Diego doesn’t mean _anything_.

And that Diego is what Diego really is.

He stays in the bathroom for a while, heaving against the cold air, hands gripping the edges of the windowsill.

Everything is going to fall apart soon, he knows it.

Knuckles rap against the door sharply, and Dean’s call of his name startles him. He turns on his heels, swiping at his face even though he hasn’t actually cried. His eyes are teary, though, and he squeezes the tears out to dab them away with his sleeves.

“Diego, you in there?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “yeah, I’m coming out.”

He takes in a breath, blows it out slowly as he walks towards the door.

Dean looks him up and down as soon as there’s nothing between them, lingering on Diego’s face.

“You’re okay?” He asks suspiciously.

Diego nods, says, “Yeah, I’m fine,” because everything else would sound too close to the truth.

Dean doesn't look convinced but he doesn't push and simply grazes a hand over the small of Diego's back as they head back to their table.

  * ●●●●



Later that evening, Diego makes the decision, feeling vaguely nauseous as he reaches his resolve.

He wipes his palms on his thighs, calls out to Dean, “I’m craving pizza,” and cracks his knuckles on impulse. His scars catch in the artificial light of the motel room and he flexes his hands just to see the skin shift.

Dean grumbles in acknowledgment from the couch and tosses him the keys to Impala when Diego leans over the backrest to look down at him.

“Scratch her and you’re a dead man, Hargreeves,” Dean warns, pointing a finger at him.

Diego rolls his eyes, ridiculously endeared by it, and says, “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Dean observes him for a moment, then reaches out to grab a fistful of his shirt and haul him down for a short kiss. Diego goes willingly, happily, lets Dean catch his mouth in a peck that turns into two, then three, then gives the back of his neck a gentle squeeze before letting him go.

Diego thinks he wants to keep kissing Dean like this, easy and mindless and sure, for the rest of his life. Then he remembers reality and fights a strong urge to cry.

He slides behind the wheel with wet eyes- which seems to be their permanent state lately, pitifully- and wipes them dry because it wouldn’t earn him any extra points if he did end up scratching Dean’s beloved car.

The store is still open and if the cashier remembers him as the guy who ran out of there like the place was on fire a few days ago, he doesn’t mention it. Diego snatches up the book he came here for- Speculative Theories of the Umbrella Academy- and then, hesitantly, takes Vanya’s autobiography as well.

He doesn’t know how he’ll sneak it past Dean when he gets back, but it nags him to read it just as much it makes him feel like he’s gonna be sick the longer he looks at it.

He grabs the pizza on his way to the motel, leafs through the first book while he waits for it to be done. He’d be dying laughing over the shit that’s written inside, but right now he’s just concentrating on making sure there’s nothing in it that could give him away.


	4. 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, yeah, I don't even know what this is- but I have,,,,feelings.
> 
> Let me know what you think and enjoy! :)

Dean hasn’t moved from the couch by the time he gets back. Diego nudges the door shut with his foot, balancing their food and the books in his hands. He feels queasy but the smell of melted cheese and the warm dough is making his mouth water anyway.

“God, that smells good,” Dean says in the way of greeting. He’s not looking at Diego, eyes firmly plastered to the TV screen, and Diego takes the opportunity to chuck Vanya’s book inside his bag while he takes his jacket off and toes off his boots.

When he sets the pizza box on the coffee table, Dean sits up from his sprawl on the couch to take the book on top of it in his hands. He looks it over with a frown on his face.

“Speculative Theories of the Umbrella Academy,” he reads the title out loud and looks at Diego with raised eyebrows.

Diego becomes acutely aware of how stiff his fingers feel and resists the painful urge to crack his knuckles, shrugs instead. “I, uh, saw it in that shop where some of the kids the vic knew hung out. I figured, since we don’t really have much…”

“To try our hand in conspiracy theories?” Dean asks lightly.

Diego’s lips twitch, wanting to pull into a smile. He’s gonna miss this, he thinks.

With dry mouth, he says, “Yeah.”

Dean shrugs, sets the book on the cushions between the two of them and reaches for the pizza.

  * ●●●●



“Okay. So. What the everloving fuck is _The Umbrella Academy?_ ”

Diego’s teeth lock down on the cheese-filled crust he was about to demolish- and takes note of curiosity and “what the fuck, this sounds ridiculous” in his tone. He tears off a bite and chews while trying to figure out what to say.

“It’s like. This group that was kinda active while I was a kid,” he says and on a whim leans against Dean. He slumps into his side, so Dean can’t really see his face and focuses on some non-existent point on the wall. With an eye roll, he adds, “Imagine off-brand, wannabe superheroes X-Men or some shit.”

Dean barks out a laugh, jostles him, “What, like with spandex?”

“Sure,” Diego allows because it’s easier than saying he has no fucking idea what exactly the material is.

“Dude, you mean you had superheroes running around your neighborhood? And you never told me?” Dean’s voice is laced with surprise and betrayal.

Diego tries to shrug but it ends up being more of a twitch. “It just wasn’t important,” he says.

And it wasn’t. The Umbrella Academy, by the time he met Dean, was already as dead as Ben was. It was nothing. Just a memory in some minds and a collection of bizarre clues that created a tragic, unresolved mystery. It was nothing to talk or to dwell about.

“And they are gone now anyway,” he adds. He doesn’t mean to lean more into Dean, doesn’t make a conscious decision to do so, but Dean adjusts to him wordlessly before he even got aware of his movements. He’s warm and feels like home and Diego’s head is just a shy from being tucked into the crook of his neck.

“I would’ve still wanted to know,” Dean says and Diego feels the words in vibrations where they touch.

“Sorry,” he tells him. For more than just this.

Dean doesn’t verbally acknowledge his apology, but his arm drapes lightly over Diego’s shoulders and it feels like he forgives him.

Diego licks his lips, starts talking, “Anyway, the word never really got out- that’s probably why you never heard of it before- and when they…disappeared, it didn’t take long for people to forget about them.”

Or maybe not forget; maybe just start ignoring. Writing it off as just another weird thing that happened. Sometimes, it makes Diego glad that there’s nothing to mark him in the eyes of other people. Other times, it makes him angry. They were supposed to be a team. They were supposed to save the world.

He glances at the book in Dean’s hand.

“Obviously, not everyone forgot. I figured, maybe those kids were trying to- I don’t know, you should read it first.”

Then- because they both know how likely Dean is to read the whole thing, at least before another person dies- he says, “Start with Six.”

After a beat, Dean starts leafing through the book, feet kicked up on the coffee table.

Diego could fall asleep right where he is but there is tension, like a rope, between his shoulder blades ad it’s pulled taut creating pressure through the whole line of his spine. He wonders, as Dean reads, if this was a bad idea.

Probably. Most likely. But-

But he never claimed to have good ideas. And creating a mess is something he’s always been good at.

“Dude,” Dean says after a while, “tentacles?”

“Tentacles.”

“What the fuck.”

“Keep reading.”

Diego finally cracks his knuckles, every crack sending pins of pain in his joints, and, then, relief. He doesn’t remember when he started doing that but sometimes his whole body creaks like a house that’s been built on bad ground. Stress, Mom told him once, but it feels more like pent up anger tearing him up from inside.

“Okay, what the fuck. Diego, this is nuts,” Dean tells him. Diego feels him shaking his head in disbelief, uses the opportunity to subtly burrow in closer. He’s not…a cuddler, usually. Or he could be, but- He doesn’t, he doesn’t tend to indulge it often. If they’re in bed but usually- Diego doesn’t know what to do with affection. Not the kind that Dean is willing to give him.

“But maybe it’s exactly what’s happening here. Did you read it?”

“Mhm,” Diego hums. The author, authors; _whoever the fuck wrote it_ , got it all wrong. But it fits with what is happening here down to a t.

“So we’re after an ancient demon who has tentacles and virginity fetish? I guess we had to tick that off the list sooner or later,” Dean grouches, sounding like someone dealing with shit way above their pay grade.

Diego snorts and feels Dean’s fingers lightly touch his nape, brushing over his skin mindlessly.

“Guess so,” he agrees and closes his eyes.

It’s quiet for a bit, just their breathing and Dean occasionally turning pages, huffing out a soft snort and a murmured comment here and there and Diego responding with a hum. It feels like basking in the sun inside a wooden boat in a sea filled with sharks and a storm brewing in the distance.

“But seriously, what was it actually?” Dean asks a bit later.

“What was what?” Diego asks back. He’s drowsy and he doesn’t want to open his eyes.

“The thing. Uh, what was it called? The Terror?”

Diego snorts, “The Horror. I don’t know. It’s- they never said.”

Dean deflates.

He wants to tell Dean the truth. He does; he’s aching with it. But one wrong move is gonna bring down this house of cards and if Diego’s gonna make a mess of things, he’s at least not going to drag his siblings into it.

By now, Dean’s hand has settled firmly over his shoulder, fingers dancing over his collarbone, and now he reaches up to brush them through the short hair at Diego’s nape.

“You okay?” Dean asks him hesitantly.

Diego blinks.

_Is he okay? He’s not._

“Just tired.”

Dean stills his hand for a second, and Diego wonders if he’s gonna press, if he can see through him, but then he resumes his motions. He cards his fingers through Diego’s short hair, brushes his fingertips behind Diego’s ear, and then, unexpectedly, presses his lips against the crown of Diego’s head.

  * ●●●●



They get in the bed not much later. This motel room is the kind of the nicer ones, and the sheets are thick and smell like flowery fabric softener.

They brush their teeth alongside each other, elbows knocking occasionally, and then dress down to their underwear before crawling underneath the covers. Diego all but melts into the mattress, basks in the lack of springs digging into his liver or spleen, and waits for Dean to settle down.

He presses his cheek against the pillow, feels Dean’s arm brush his back as he throws the cover over them. On impulse, feeling brave and desperate, Diego grabs his wrist and slings his arm over his back. Dean freezes and Diego doesn’t dare to breathe, doesn’t dare to think until Dean relaxes, halfway draped over him, and curls his hand around Diego’s shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have discovered it is hella hard to get out of the cuddly/angsty mood that Diego has going on in the last chapter and the beginning of this one XD I need to write something schmoopy as fuck with these two. Soon.
> 
> Let me know what you think and enjoy! :)

The next morning, it’s raining like Heaven’s pouring buckets down on Earth. With Dean still passed out on the bed- and partially on him- Diego’s eyes wander to his duffle bag, to the invisible shape of his life in book form. It taunts him and makes his stomach twist.

He stares and stares and stares. His eyes water. He blinks.

Diego knows he has issues. He knows he’s…not easy. Short-tempered and cruel at the worst of times and in all wrong situations and then frozen and out of his depth in others. And most of the time frazzled and twisted and stuck like words in his throat. He doesn’t know why he’s like that.

And he doesn’t know why Vanya would do this. She was the quiet one, the one that had all the time to think and predict the consequences and weigh the pros and cons. She’s not the one who would do something like this. If Diego had any interest in writing, this would be him. Not Vanya.

Distantly, far, far back in his mind, there’s an inkling of understanding, of maybe comprehending but it’s quickly drowned out by everything else. The red-hot sting in his chest like salt on an opened wound.

Diego is all feelings and it’s going to be the end of him. Just like it was for Klaus. Just like it was for Ben. Looks like the even numbers really got the shorter straw.

The thought has him snorting bitterly to himself, the sound almost drowned out by rain pelting against the windows.

Dean grumbles in his sleep, curls a hand over the back of Diego’s head and snuffles against the back of his neck before settling again. Diego is pretty sure his whole left side fell asleep with Dean’s weight on top of it, but he can’t force himself to move.

It happens though, eventually- when Dean yawns loudly into his ear. The fucker does it on purpose, Diego can tell, and the familiar, almost childish way of messing with him does wonders of making him feel marginally better than since this whole mess started.

“Aw, Jesus,” Dean grumbles, “it’s fucking raining?”

Diego hums affirmatively. He buries his face into the pillow for a moment as Dean rises up to his forearms. The sharp points of his elbows planted into the mattress near Diego’s shoulder and the crook of his neck.

Dean groans, drops his head to the back of Diego’s for the shortest second and then hauls himself out of the bed with, “Breakfast?”

Diego misses his warmth; feels goosebumps appear on his skin and _yep_ , pins and needles in his left arm, _fucking ouch_.

He doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful that Dean’s not mentioning his yesterday’s clinginess. He doesn’t want to talk about it- but for all he knows, Dean could’ve just indulged him. He’s turning needy and that, he knows for sure, is terrifying him.

  * ●●●●



The diner is packed. People are either holed up in their homes or collecting in cafés and diners, commiserating due to the shitty weather and the tragedy that recently struck them.

Diego and Dean find a corner booth all the way back, near the restrooms. Dean parked as close to the entrance as he could but they still got practically soaked in time it took them to sprint to the door and get inside. The consolation is that at least more than half of other people here are in same states of wet and miserable as they are.

Diego peels off his drenched jacket and lets it flop pitiably on the shiny vinyl seat next to him. He combs a hand through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead and wipes his wet face.

Dean is doing a similar thing opposite to him. He shrugs out of that big leather jacket he practically stole from John a while back and discards it on the bench next to him just like Diego has done with his.

“Fucking weather,” he tells to no one in particular but Diego still nods and hums in agreement.

He looks around, trying to spot the waitress. When he finds her occupied with a few elderly patrons, he turns back to face Dean.

“What are we gonna do about the case?” He asks quietly, borderline paranoid that someone’s gonna hear him.

Dean scratches his cheek, says, “Dunno. But right now, we’re gonna eat. Then we can worry about psycho teens who sacrifice their peers to demons.”

“Do you ever not think with your stomach?” Diego teases.

“Well, yeah. Other times I think with my-“

“Don’t finish that,” Diego warns, tipped off by the smug tilt of Dean’s mouth.

“-brain,” Dean says anyway, downright smirking. “What did you think I was gonna say? Head out of the gutter, Hargreeves.”

Diego gets a flash of Klaus telling him something along those same lines, sprouting dirty jokes and innuendos left and right whenever he gets a chance- and immediately wants to bleach out his brain. His brother- any of his siblings, really- is not what he wants to think about when he’s looking at Dean.

He harrumphs doubtfully in response.

When the waitress arrives, Diego orders a batch of blueberry pancakes, spurred on by the sudden wave of nostalgia, and a vanilla milkshake. He’s barely taken a sip of it in the time it took Dean to pretty much inhale his first cup of coffee.

After he gets his refill, Diego asks again, “The case?”

“Hngh, food, Diego. _Food_.”

Diego rolls his eyes.

“What? I can’t think on an empty stomach,” Dean retorts.

Diego sticks the straw in his mouth and takes a sip of his drink, deciding not to comment.

True to his word, though, after swallowing the first bite of his burger, Dean says, “So basically, we think these kids are trying to summon the- uh, what did you say it’s called again?”

“The Horror.”

“Yeah, that.”

Diego tears into his pancakes. It’s beyond him how this could happen; if he didn’t have proof, he’d call bullshit on this whole idea. He always thought that Ben and the Horror were…not one, exactly, but joined. Ben was the doorway and once you plow down the house, there’s no more door either. When Ben died, the Horror died with him. At least Diego thought it did.

Maybe- _apparently_ , he was wrong.

Dean sighs heavily, “Man, what do we do about this anyway?”

Diego frowns, chewing. The pancakes are a bit dry and the blueberries are sweeter than how he likes them. “What do you mean?”

“About the kids,” Dean says, throwing a handful of fries into his mouth.

Diego catches on. Do they kill the idiots who are trying to summon a monster into their sleepy little, shitty town?

Honestly- yeah. Diego doesn’t have Dean’s reservations when it comes to this. He didn’t grow up with luxuries of having everything painted black and white for him. Or maybe he did, just Dean’s black and white were human versus monstrous and Diego’s were good versus evil.

He shrugs. “They got a kid killed.”

“Maybe they didn’t mean to. I mean, that superhero kid was alive and it had that thing inside him.”

“That superhero kid got killed too, Dean.”

“Well, yeah. But like you said, they weren’t forthcoming with information; we can’t know if he died because of it,” Dean defends. Diego doesn’t get it. Since when is Dean the one defending their suspects?

“They still did it. And why the fuck were they playing around with that shit?”

“They are just dumb kids, Diego.”

“That doesn’t justify it,” he says, stabbing down with his fork with more force than intended.

Dean gives him a long look after that, silent and observing him like he’s a skittish animal. Diego is scared to ask what he sees. He's wet and he’s cold and he’s not very hungry anymore.

“Okay,” Dean says slowly in the end and it sounds like he’s offering him an olive branch, “we’ll…work on it as we go, alright?”

Diego nods because he doesn’t want to fight.

Dean looks like he wants to say something else, but opts to just clear his throat and go back to his breakfast.


	6. 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look! Plot development. Sort of.
> 
> Let me know what you think and enjoy! :)

“Motherfucker!”

The car speeds around the corner, motor roaring, and leaves Diego standing at the curb, the left leg of his jeans soaked from mid-calf down. His boot is also wet and he scowls furiously, daydreaming about slashing the asshole’s tires.

His face is a blurry reflection in the puddle in front of him. From behind, Dean makes a noise of air being sucked into his lungs sharply to prevent himself from snickering.

Diego still throws him a glare over his shoulder.

They stayed inside the diner long enough for their clothes to dry, more or less, and for the rain to switch from a furiously downpour to a half-hearted drizzle. And now his socks are wet again. Goddamnit.

Dean claps him on the back, fingers curling over his shoulder briefly as they start back towards the Impala.

“You should watch out, you know,” Dean tells him. Diego doesn’t have to even look at him to know he’s smirking, he can hear it in his voice.

“Fuck off. He was supposed to slow down,” he grumbles back. He feels sticky with dried rainwater and wants a hot shower so bad he would most definitely kill for it. Or maybe not kill. But maim badly.

This day is really not going well for him.

  * ●●●●



They come to a tentative agreement later that day. They are not killing the kids.

At least not unless they fuck up again. And Diego knows they will.

“I don’t get why you’re so pessimistic about this,” Dean tells him around a mouthful of chips.

They are keeping watch in the street near one of the kids’ houses. The Impala is parked in the darkness underneath a tall tree with pink leaves. Diego thinks it’s called a crabapple tree, but it wasn’t the only pink-leaved tree in Mom’s gardening book so he can’t be sure. The lowest branches are just half a foot above the Impala’s roof and there are small collections of petals gathering on the windshield and the hood.

Diego shrugs. “I’m being realistic,” he says.

Dean snorts at him.

“Right,” he says lightly. But when Diego doesn’t rise to his teasing tone, he adds, “Dude, if I didn’t, in fact, know that you are getting laid- regularly, may I add- I’d tell you that you need to get some. What’s up with you?”

Diego rolls his eyes, slumps in his seat. His cheeks don’t heat up. It’s just hot inside the car and his jacket is still a bit damp so he borrowed one of Dean’s winter ones. It’s thick- too thick- and worn-soft and smells a little bit like gunpowder but Diego toys with the zipper and burrows into it like it’s his own.

“I’m fine,” he lies, “I just don’t have a lot of faith in those brats. They got a girl killed. Consciously. Murder is not exactly something you just dip your toes in once and then never again.”

Dean turns to face him. “So, what, you think they’ll try it again?”

“Yeah.” And he hopes they don’t succeed.

Dean sighs, props his elbow on the door and glances at the house they’re watching like a girl on a cover of some corny romance novel.

Diego shifts, feels pins in his legs from being cramped in here for hours. He wants to prop them up on the dash but Dean still doesn’t tolerate it. He is suddenly thrown back to the witch case while the Winchesters lived in the city; to that stake-out where Diego climbed into Dean’s lap. God, it’s been years. The only thing that’s different now is that, if Diego ended up in Dean’s lap now, it would be completely on purpose.

And if that’s not a punch to his gut, nothing is. Who the fuck would Diego be if he never met Dean?

Absently, he twirls the knife inside the jacket’s pocket between his fingers, edges the pad of his thumb over the sharpened blade.

  * ●●●●



Nothing happens that night, or the next. Or the next.

And then, on Friday night, as Dean’s demolishing a burger, their suspect rushes out of the house like his pants are on fire and beelines it to the old Volvo that pulls up.

“Shit!” Dean exclaims, shoving the burger into Diego’s hands and firing up the engine, following after them.

Diego sighs because he told Dean- more than once- that burgers are not stake-out food- and finishes the burger in two bites before crumpling up the wrapper and tossing it to the floor by his feet. He’ll throw it out later.

They follow the car down the winding back roads, the darkness being a reason why it takes them so long to realize they’re driving back to the crime scene of the first murder. The church.

“Fucking hell,” Dean curses, stepping on the brakes.

They get out quickly, gravel crunching beneath their boots. The Volvo is parked right in front of the entrance, empty and with the door left open. _They were in a hurry_ , Diego muses, exchanging a look with Dean.

At the doorway, Dean grabs the handle, mouths, “ _On three_ ,” at him and starts the countdown on his fingers.

When he swings the door open, Diego charges in, knife hidden in his palm.

Then something hits him across the temple, hard, and everything goes black.

  * ●●●●



He comes back to a brain-melting headache. And he’s fucking pissed.

“Dude, just- no, look, you gotta toss it over, loop and pull,” a voice says exasperatedly.

“Shut the fuck up, Mike, I am doing that,” another hisses back, shaky with frustration.

Both boys are oblivious to Diego, busy tying unconscious Dean to a chair. They’ve been jumped by a group of teenagers. If Diego wasn’t so pissed, he’d be embarrassed.

He blinks at the dusty chandelier, somehow still miraculously working, casting faint white light over the room. The walls are painted over with fresh sigils, and there are a plastic bowl and a kitchen knife disposed on a fold-out lawn chair near the pews.

“Guys! He’s awake,” A new voice calls out and Diego’s eyes snap to a twiggy figure shuffling at the side entrance.

The boys flinch, startled. They get over it quickly, though, and the one with shaggy blond hair asks, “So which one are you?”

The other one smacks him upside the head, “Dude, he has a knife. What do you think?”

Diego watches them with a sinking sense of comprehension. _No_ , he thinks.

The blond shoots his friend a glare, “It doesn’t have to be! Anyone can wear a knife, Mike.”

Mike rolls his eyes, turns to Diego. He asks, “You’re Number Two, right?” and Diego feels like throwing up.

“What?” He asks, his voice hollow and faint to his own ears. He feels his house of cards falling apart.

“We saw your tat, dude.”

Fucking tattoo.

“The hell are you doing?” He asks them. He wants- _he needs_ to know what the fuck would get them to pull this shit. How did they decide that this would be a good idea?

They exchange looks.

“The virginity thing didn’t work,” Mike says, “so we figured someone older and stronger would probably survive.”

“What.”

Blond sighs. “Look, since you’re here, you might give us some advice?”

“ _What._ No.”

They frown. “Well, shit, dude. Don’t you have your own power already? You can give us this one.”

“What the-“ Diego cuts a glance at Dean, still blissfully passed out, “You think I know how to, what, summon The Horror?”

“Oh, shit. You guys really call it that?”

Christ. Diego’s gonna fucking scoop their eyes out, he swears. He flexes his hands, tied behind the chair’s backrest. If his hands were free right now…

“You need to let us go,” he tells them, throat aching to say something else, something worse.

“Or?” The guy from the doorway calls. The little fucker is hot shit with the escape within his reach and Diego tied to a fucking lawn chair.

“You’ll regret it,” he tells them seriously.

They snort. “Man, that’s so fucking cliché.”

God, Diego hates teenagers. Which makes him sound approximately fucking 80 but doesn’t make it any less true.

He breathes through his nose.

He wonders if they know about his second power. It was never mentioned in the papers, and he doesn’t know if Vanya wrote about it in her book. He hopes not.

He breathes in and holds it.


	7. 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This is a long one. If you plan on being happy after reading this...don't. You will want to murder me when you're done.
> 
> Uh, enjoy??

Diego has spent more time than he cares to think about submerged inside the swimming pool. A rope around his ankle and a weight, defying physics while Pogo’s voice counting his seconds, minutes, _hours_ , drifts in, dull and muted. He can easier remember the patterns that the light cast through the surface onto the bottom of the pool than his bedroom’s ceiling. When he closes his eyes, and thinks, stills until his body doesn’t feel like his own anymore, they dance on his eyelids.

Quiet fury shimmers deep in his core, somewhere behind his lungs, and as panicked hands pat him and shake him, childish, stubborn spite keeps him completely relaxed.

“Oh, fuck, guys, he’s not breathing!”

“What the hell happened?!”

“Do CPR!”

“What! I don’t fucking know CPR!”

“Jesus! Put him- untie him and put him on his back. We need him alive.”

Shaky hands hack away at the twine around his wrists and then his body is awkwardly laid onto the floor. Dust clings to his fingertips.

He realizes, somewhere along the line of locking down, his body uselessly fighting against the living, depriving itself of the air, that he’s not coming back from this. Not with Dean.

Because he’ll have to tell him the truth.

“What now?”

“Uh, you gotta give him mouth-to-mouth.”

“What? Aw, dude.”

He feels a sharp exhale against his face- and then lurches.

“Shit!”

Diego has never hit a kid before but he supposes the phrase ‘there’s the first time for everything’ wasn’t invented for shits and giggles.

The satisfaction he feels when the bone crunches underneath his knuckles is probably concerning, but he figures that now’s not the time to ponder on that.

The other one throws himself over Diego’s back, arms winding around his neck. If he’s trying to cut off Diego’s airflow, well, first of all, he’s not even putting pressure on the right place. Diego flips him over his head, lets him fall on the floor in the heap of gangly limbs.

The first kid flops down on his ass, cupping his nose and whining. “Ow! Oh my god! Oh, fuck, I’m bleeding!”

“Oh, yeah?” Diego growls, on him immediately. “That’s what happens when you’re being an asshole.”

It occurs to Diego how utterly, gigantically, ridiculous this is. Out of all cases and all hunter and _all fucking people in the whole damn world_. If he thought about it hard enough, he’d end up crying.

He remembers, distantly- from his own experiences- that kids are fragile. So when he smashes this kid’s head against the filthy, stained floor, he knows he won’t get up so soon.

The other, Mike, he recalls, palms Diego’s knife, holding it all wrong, and shaking like a leaf. He doesn’t get to try anything with it, though.

When the gunshot rings, Diego freezes, expecting pain, fire.

Mike goes down with a sick gurgle, a pool of blood spreading around his fallen body.

The kid from the doorway holds the gun, unwavering, his expression forcefully steely. He’s putting on a thick front but Diego knows scared kids and this one is aware how deep in shit he is.

Diego holds his hands where the kid can see them and flits his eyes to Dean. Still unconscious.

“You’re gonna listen to me,” the kid orders.

“Okay,” Diego agrees easily. Until he can grab the gun, he’ll play along. It’s not gonna do anyone any good, Dean the least, if this ends with a bullet in Diego’s head.

“You’re gonna finish the drawings,” the kid tells him, “and you’re gonna tell me how to do this right.”

“Okay,” Diego repeats, having no intention of doing that.

He locates the can of paint and the brush, crouches down to follow scrubbed, washed-out lines. He keeps his movements deliberate and slow, his eyes on red of the paint mixing with the crimson of blood pooling on the floor.

“It’s not gonna work, though. Again,” he says when silence settles over them.

Dean is still completely lax in the chair, head resting on his shoulder awkwardly and revealing a nasty bump above his ear. He’s gonna bitch about it as hell when he wakes up. Then he’ll book them a few days in some no-name motel with cable and air-conditioning, and he’ll play the card of “injured while saving lives” and demand extra blowjobs from Diego.

It’s scary how well Diego can picture it, how he knows almost exactly how Dean works.

“It will work,” the kid presses.

Diego somewhat sees why his stubbornness gets on everybody’s nerves as much as it does.

“You just shot your friend,” he says next. Dips the brush into the paint again, watches it crawl down the bristles thickly before dripping back into the can and on the floorboards.

“We weren’t friends. He doesn’t even say hi when he sees me in school. He just thought it’d be cool to have a monster, and I needed help.”

Diego rolls his eyes at the ground. He does not miss being a teenager.

He risks a glance at the kid and sees him looking somewhere at the side.

When he’s done with paint, he slips the brush inside his sleeve and stands up.

“Done,” he says.

The kid jerks, startled and desperate not to show it, and nods at Dean. “Good. Now drag him inside the circle.”

Diego freezes. If something goes wrong-

“No.”

The kid frowns. “I need this.”

Diego scoffs, “You don’t fucking know what you need.”

“Because I’m a _kid_?”

“ _Yes._ ” There is wondering about what you want to do with your life- and then there’s summoning a monster.

The kid sets his jaw, offended, and says, “Fine, whatever. I don’t even need you.”

And then starts chanting.

Diego is still standing in the middle of the summoning circle. He thinks he should move, but he feels lead-heavy and glued down. He looks at Dean, blissfully oblivious and horribly in danger.

To the kid, “Why do you even want to do this?”

“Why?” The kid parrots, breaking his chant- it’s too late, though, the damage has been done, Diego can feel it in the air- and advances toward him rapidly. _Yes._

“Because I’m done being overlooked! When I get this, nobody’s gonna ignore me anymore!”

“Yeah. _Because you’ll be dead_ ,” Diego responds dryly, subtly touching the brush in his sleeve, letting it to slowly nestle into his palm, hidden. The air fills with electricity.

He knows what it’s like to be a kid and feel like a walking shadow all the time, and chase confirmations that he’s alive. But he’s seen what happened to Ben. He had front row seats to his brother’s death, here and gone.

“Maybe,” the kid shrugs.

“Definitely.”

“You can’t be sure,” the kid jabs the gun in his chest and spits out a few final sounding words of the chant.

Before he can pull his hand back, Diego grabs his wrist harshly and tugs. The kid lurches toward him, struggling, and the momentum gives Diego the opportunity to throw himself out of the circle, jamming the hilt of the brush into the kid’s windpipe to make him release the gun. It clatters just outside the circle, into the drying pool of blood next to Mike’s corpse.

Diego hip-checks the nearby pew- what’s left of it- and the kid yells out, “No!” before gasping and curling his arms around his middle.

The pressure shoves against Diego’s lungs, air making space for something far bigger than any of them, and as the kid starts screaming, Diego snatches his knife from the ground and rushes to Dean.

He’s trying to block out the noise, the screaming and gasping and the strange whining- _and his siblings yelling, bones in his wrist grinding in Luther’s grip_ \- before the bubble in his ears finally pops.

The blade cuts through the rope around Dean’s hands like butter and the air leaves the room.

Diego has nightmares. Of course he has. But they have no shape, just sound and taste, ashes and copper, and feelings. It’s like his mind refuses to see what happened twice.

The tentacles writhe through the air with familiar determination. The Horror maybe can’t see, but it has other ways of finding what it’s looking for.

“Fuck,” Diego says, trying to safely heave Dean’s body out of the chair, and then again as Horror wraps its tendrils around Dean’s arm and torso. Dean is still completely out of it, and in the background, Diego worries about that head bump.

“No! Fuck! No!” Diego lurches after them, heart in his heels, in his throat, completely stopped inside his chest. His brain blanks out every thought except the desperate, terrified need to not let go of Dean under any circumstances.

His fingers slip over the slick surface, mindless and shaky.

“No,” he says over the loud rumbling noise that rattles his skull, grinding his teeth when he feels a tentacle wrap around his neck and curls against his jaw.

“Fuck off,” he chokes out, eyes stinging, “you can’t have him. You already have Ben. What the fuck more do you want?”

Tears slip out unprompted, angry, furious, terrified. It’s not fair.

A loud whine shudders through the room and Diego feels the monster tighten its grip on him, squeezing just for a moment, before a tip flicks lightly over his wet cheek.

And then it retracts, slipping away as suddenly and as surely as it came, leaving behind a hollowed corpse.

Diego’s knees hit the floor and he heaves out a broken sigh before dragging Dean out of there.

  * ●●●●



His tears dry by the time Dean finally pulls himself out of unconsciousness. He stirs in the passenger seat, head twitching before his eyes blink fuzzily at Diego.

He makes a vaguely questioning noise and then jerks, brain catching up with whatever happened before he got knocked out.

“What-“

“The case is over,” Diego tells him easily, focusing on the road.

Dean is quiet for a second, then he groans and says, “Fuck, my head. What the hell happened?”

“We got ambushed by group of kids,” Diego says, “and your Sleeping Beauty ass slept through the whole thing.”

“What thing?”

“They wanted to sacrifice you to the monster.”

Dean blinks. “Uh, thanks for not letting them? I assume.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean is alive. He’s alive. They are both alive. And Diego can’t release the tension building between his shoulder blades, digging into his flesh and bones like claws.

“You okay?”

He flits his eyes over to Dean, takes note of his furrowed brows.

“I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

The longer he sits still, the more he feels like he can’t breathe. Which is ridiculous, a mockery of the worst kind because it comes from him. He has to tell Dean. If he doesn’t tell him now, he’s never gonna do it and today he got lucky. Today he got lucky and Dean didn’t hear it from some snotty, psychotic teens, but they both know luck is a slippery thing to play with. It’s not always going to be on Diego’s side.

He has to tell Dean.

  * ●●●●



_When Diego wakes up, he feels like death warmed over. Head cotton-stuffed, mouth dry. Neck and back stiff from falling asleep half in a chair and half on the bed, head and arms pillowed on Ben’s hip._

_His wrist is a dark smudge of purples, blues and reds, throbbing faintly and swollen just a bit thanks to a shot of something Mom gave him and he felt too sick to ask about. Around it, a relatively thin tentacle winds itself, curling over his palm. Diego observes it with detached interest, noticing the movement beneath the sheets and not daring to look. He’s not scared, and he’s not happy, and he thinks, I almost died. You almost killed me._

_The tendril wraps around his thumb, feels like thank you. We almost died too._

_Ben is still sleeping. On the other beds and chairs, his siblings are dozing off, recharging and refusing to leave just like he is._

_His throat clogs up. He closes his eyes. Goes back to sleep._

  * ●●●●



“I need to talk to you,” Diego says as soon as they enter the motel room, shrugging out of Dean’s jacket. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll chicken out.

His palms sweat, his heart lost all sense of rhythm, pounding against his breastbone like it’s trying to shatter it.

Dean pauses at the door, closing it slowly and eyeing Diego thoughtfully.

“Okay…About what?” He asks wearily.

Diego itches for a blade, something to entertain his restless fingers and the panicky part of his brain that’s telling him it’s all going to fall apart. He soldiers on.

“I- I have to tell you something.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean nods. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t want to do this. He really doesn’t.

And also, just now, he realizes he never had to. His whole family always knew. Eudora was a kid just like him while The Umbrella Academy was active and it didn’t take her long to piece everything together. And he never got close enough to anyone else to require telling them. Except for Dean. And he really did a bang-up job there.

Hell, he never came out of closet either. Growing up with Klaus to whom everything is a kaleidoscope of personalities and colors and preferences, gender never mattered. Klaus was always loud and shameless and nothing about it felt wrong. Dad didn’t care about anything but the training and missions and powers, and Mom didn’t care about anything as long as they were all happy and safe.

He doesn’t want to do this. And he doesn’t know how to do this.

So he says, “I’m not human.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Dean cocks his head forward, frowning. He looks surprised, caught off-guard.

“What?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-“

“You’re serious?” Dean cuts him off.

Sense of dread creeps up his spine. “Yeah. I- Look, I know-“

Dean jabs a finger at him, advancing.

“You’re not human. And you never- in all those years we’ve known each other- you never said anything?”

He looks hurt. Fuck. And he looks pissed.

“I know. I’m sorry and I know you’re mad-“

“Mad? Oh, yeah, I’m real mad,” he works his jaw, muscles ticking. He’s not meeting Diego’s eyes, his whole body poised for a fight. Something in the air shifts and Diego feels the rug being pulled from underneath him.

“And I’m wondering what the hell you’re playing at.”

Diego blinks. “What?”

“What was the idea, huh? Get close to me?” Dean asks, hands balled into fists.

“Dean-“

“Let me guess. You caught feelings and now you think if you come clean everything is forgiven, huh?”

Diego knows Dean. And he knows he probably doesn’t mean this. But it still stings. And Diego doesn’t do well with hurt.

“Caught feelings. What the hell does that mean?” He asks, scoffing.

“What exactly was your plan here?” Dean asks, then immediately shakes his head. “You know what? I don’t care,” he laughs, brittle and wounding, avoiding Diego’s eyes.

“ _My plan?_ ” Diego feels like they’re not even having the same conversation.

“Oh, what, you’re here out of the goodness of your heart? Fucking spare me, you’re all the same.”

And then they both fall silent. Diego’s mind catches on a loop, replays the words until the letters jumble up, hoping to erase their meaning. Instead, it sinks into him like the harshest, bone-chilling cold. He wants to cry.

He finds himself scoffing, “Right.”

“Get out,” Dean says.

“Out?” He doesn’t feel too fond of Dean at the moment. But he doesn’t want to leave. “Dean-“

“Get out and stay gone.”

It’s not what Diego expected. He expected a fight, and yelling, and he expected to fumble his way through an explanation. Not this.

“Dean, you don’t get it. I’m-“

“Don’t,” Dean growls. He sounds livid. But when he turns to face Diego, his eyes are glassy.

“Don’t you fucking tell me what you are. Because if I know what you are, I’ll know how to kill you, and then I’ll have to go after you. You understand that, hm? So just fucking go, Diego.” He says and points at the door.

“Right,” he repeats numbly.

Diego doesn’t feel like he has the control over his body. He picks up his jacket from the chair backrest, grabs his duffle from the floor (he and Dean still don’t unpack, due to…sudden departures).

He walks out of the room and off towards the bus station, eyes dry, mind blank.

The feeling of numbness leaves him only three days later- back at Al’s, alone again- and the gaping hole in his chest finally wrings the tears out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeahhh. Uh, come yell at me in the comments?? I'm a terrible, evil person, I know.
> 
> The next one will either pick up soon after this one, or I'll maybe do a time skip. We'll see. 
> 
> If the timeline's blurry and you can't keep up, Dean and Diego are around 23-24-ish in this one.
> 
> Uhhh, yeah. If you need a pick me up, you can check out my TUA fic, if you want: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188072 (self-promo? Yes, I know, I'm shameless)


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